


The Scent of Cloves

by Shiba_with_a_Typewriter



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Corpses, First Meetings, Funeral Home AU, Graphic Description of Corpses, Humor, Meet-Cute, Other, very possible inaccuracies about the funeral industry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28066665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiba_with_a_Typewriter/pseuds/Shiba_with_a_Typewriter
Summary: An unexpected errand leads to a chance encounter with a very peculiar mortician.
Relationships: Valdemar (The Arcana)/Original Character(s), Volta/Vulgora (The Arcana)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	The Scent of Cloves

“Take a left onto Desmet Road,” helpfully chirped the electronic voice of the GPS. 

Finch frowned at it. This was perhaps the fifth time that the navigation system had instructed them to turn, and each time it did, they found themselves displaced to increasingly remote locations.

To their left, Desmet Road appeared to be a long, empty stretch of concrete surrounded on either side by forest. That _couldn’t_ be right, could it? Why would a funeral home be all the way out here?

This entire detour had been the result of a terrible, terrible mistake on Finch’s part — choosing to take their break at the same time as their coworker, Camilla.

Camilla’s grandmother had passed away two days ago. Finch knew this. So it wasn’t entirely surprising when they’d entered the breakroom earlier that day, and found her softly weeping over a styrofoam cup of coffee.

What they hadn’t expected was for her to tearfully ask Finch if they could possibly do a big favor for her. 

Her family was the traditional sort, she’d explained. Not only that, but her grandmother had been a well-respected matriarch within it. So naturally, a simple cremation wasn’t going to cut it — no, the funeral was to be a grand, open casket affair.

Camilla’s current predicament, and the reason that she’d been crying, had turned out to be that she’d been tasked to stop by the funeral home. The errand itself was relatively simple — her family wished for her grandmother to be buried wearing her signature makeup, so all Camilla needed to do was drop off a bag of lipstick and eyeshadow.

“I just can’t stop thinking that… that’s where my gram’s _dead body_ is—” Camilla had sobbed, clutching at her styrofoam cup. “I just don’t know how I’ll manage to even go into that building.”

“Is there… well, anything I can do to help?” Finch had asked, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder. Comforting others had never been one of their strongest suits.

Camilla’s eyes had brightened just a little, as if she’d been secretly hoping Finch would ask. She wiped a little of the mascara trickling down her face. 

“Oh, Finch... I don’t suppose you’d be willing to drop off the bag for me? I know the funeral home’s a _bit_ out of the way, but it would mean so much…”

What were they supposed to do?

Say no?

“I’d be happy to drop it off for you,” Finch had lied, and before they knew it, Camilla had swept them into a tight hug that made their spine prickle.

Now that they were actually driving to the location, it was evident that Camilla’s phrasing of it being “a bit out of the way” had been an exceptional understatement.

Finch lived on the northern outskirts of Vesuvia, working in the tourist-populated district during the day, and escaping outside it in the evening. The funeral home was supposedly also in the northern outskirts — but as Finch was finding out too late, it seemed to be located in a much more far-flung region.

If not for a small, pale sign alongside the road, Finch would’ve shot right past their destination. They slowed the car down abruptly, grateful that no one was behind them on the empty road.

In crisp lettering, the sign read “DeAngelo Funeral & Services”. Finch swerved their rattling car into the parking lot.

The building had a white-colored stone edifice, with many dark windows. It perched forebodingly on a solitary square of lawn, looking as if it were about to be swallowed up by the thick woods behind it. A wrought-iron fence encircled the premises.

Quickly, Finch checked their backpack, ensuring that the bag of makeup was still in it. Then, resignedly, they went to go enter the building. _Hopefully this won’t take much time_ , they thought. Finch had never been to a funeral home before, and this one in particular certainly wasn’t doing anything to quell the superstitions lurking within their head. 

The property looked unnervingly like the set of a horror film, and Finch felt that as soon as they stepped in, they’d be subjecting themself to the whims of some mad director.

_Just go in and deliver the bag_ , they told themself as they stepped out into the parking lot. _This’ll take a minute at most, and then you can drive home._

Once inside, Finch found themself in a dimly-lit parlor with oak paneling. There was a little burnished desk with a vase of roses, and currently no one was attending it. The whole room smelled strongly of dusty potpourri.

Finch peered about, desperately hoping to find someone here. Most of the doors were closed. There was a narrow staircase that led downstairs into absolute darkness, and it seemed an even less promising location to find someone to help.

After about a minute, there was at last a small rustling sound from the desk. Finch turned towards it, still not seeing anyone. Hesitantly, they approached, uncertain as to whether they were about to encounter a person or a small wild animal that had somehow entered the building.

Then, a diminutive woman with auburn hair emerged from behind it. In her hands were a jumbled bundle of pens, which she had evidently been picking up off the floor. Her eyes became huge when her gaze fell upon Finch.

“Oh!” she exclaimed in a squeak. “Volta did not see you! My apologies!”

The woman wore a cloche hat with a garnet brooch pinned to it, and a neatly buttoned brown dress. To Finch it seemed that the outfit might’ve been at the height of fashion about a hundred years ago, but certainly not now.

_If I am in a horror film, then this woman is almost certainly a ghost. At any moment, I’ll glance away, and she’ll disappear into thin air._

Finch cleared their throat and tried to dismiss such thoughts, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“I’m, uh… here to drop off a bag of makeup. It’s for a friend’s grandmother — Camilla Mayweather? I think she called you earlier this morning…”

Volta’s eyes lit up with remembrance.

“Oh, yes, we certainly did have a chat —” Volta’s sentence was suddenly cut off by a loud sound. Outside, there was the thunderous revving of an engine.

Finch turned their head in time to see a motorcycle garishly painted with gold flames pull up into the parking lot. They winced as it just barely skirted around their car. It came to a sharp halt right in front of the building, and its rider hurriedly muscled their way through the doors.

“Babe, I’ve got the tickets! C’mon, let’s get out of here! It’s gonna be the match of the century!”

If the motorcycle had been gaudy, then its rider was even gaudier — they wore a bright red leather jacket, shoulders studded with spikes, and… did that helmet _seriously_ have horns?

The helmet was removed to reveal a face accented with red makeup, piercings, and a broad grin.

The motorcyclist paused in the doorway, apparently noticing Finch for the first time.

“Oh _shit,_ you’ve got a customer.” 

“Yes, dear Vulgora, thank you for noticing,” Volta replied, her response dry-yet-affectionate. Against all odds, it seemed that she was well-acquainted with this motorcyclist.

Volta turned to Finch.

“I am so very _very_ sorry, but I seem to have an urgent situation upon my hands and must leave immediately!” she quickly explained. Her expression was apologetic, but her actions betrayed her. Finch watched as Volta walked to a coat rack and tugged off her own helmet along with a brown leather jacket adorned with floral embroidery.

To Finch, it seemed that the only “urgent situation” troubling her was not wanting to miss out on a hot date.

“But—” Finch weakly tried to interject.

“No need to fret, I’ll have another staff member to help you in just an instant!” Volta proceeded to scurry over to the staircase, and called down into the pitch-black depths.

“Valdemar! _Valdemar!_ I must leave urgently, but there is a customer here! Please do come up and help them!” 

And with that, Volta and Vulgora hurried outside, both speeding off on the flame-painted motorcycle onto the empty road.

Once again, Finch was alone in the parlor with only the smell of old, dusty potpourri for company. There was no sign of this mysterious “Valdemar” coming up the stairs, and Finch wondered if they had heard Volta calling, or if they really even existed.

Tiredly, Finch ambled over to an overstuffed velvet chair and sat on it. They supposed they could try to just leave the bag of makeup on the desk, but that felt wrong, somehow. Instead, they took their phone from their pocket and prepared to distract themself for a while.

“ _No service_ ”, it read. Of _course_ there would be no service out here, in the middle of nowhere. They sighed, and resigned to entertaining themself by fidgeting at the tassels sewn into the seam of a throw pillow.

The air of the funeral parlor was warm, and Finch soon found themself sinking further and further into their seat… some minutes had passed, and they were now practically on their way to sleep.

...and then at the edge of their consciousness, they were disturbed by something. Not a sound — the parlor was still perfectly silent — but more so a _presence_ that definitely hadn’t been there before.

Finch sat up from their stupor and looked up, disoriented. There was a tall figure who now stood at the landing of the staircase. They stared at Finch in eerie silence.

“Hello… are you Valdemar?” Finch asked, somewhat bewildered.

They inclined their head ever so slightly. “Yes, that would be me. And you are…?”

“Finch,” they replied quickly. “Look, I’m just here to drop off a bag of makeup — it’s for my friend’s grandmother—”

“Cassandra Mayweather, yes, I am aware.” Valdemar swiftly moved over to the little desk with the vase of roses. 

“There is some paperwork I will need to fill out, if Volta has not done so already.” Finch shook their head to indicate that she had not. 

They watched as the strange mortician took out a pen and began to write, not bothering to take off the black latex gloves that covered their hands, nor the cloth mask that shrouded their nose and mouth.

A brooch identical to Volta’s was affixed to the white turtleneck they wore, right under their neck. Finch peered over at it. Now that they had the opportunity to look at it more closely, they realized the brooch was made to resemble a beetle, with bright gold mandibles shining menacingly. The jewelry piece was almost certainly an antique.

And what they’d initially taken for a garnet appeared to be something else entirely — it wasn’t really like _any_ gemstone Finch had seen before. There was a peculiar, luminous quality to it, and Finch could swear there was movement somewhere in those red depths.

Valdemar seemed to notice Finch staring, and sent them a sharp, quizzical look.

“So, um, what’s it like working in the mortuary business?” Finch interjected, flushing with embarrassment — right now, they’d do _anything_ to break through this uncomfortable, thick silence.

“Oh? You’re interested in embalming?” Valdemar raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well, I briefly did consider it as a career choice...” Finch stammered.

That wasn’t _entirely_ a lie. Finch had, in fact, read a very interesting book on funeral industry practices while in high school. It had certainly piqued their interest as a career path… that is, up until it began describing all the colorful ways bodies decay. 

At which point, Finch had put the book down and did not pick it up again.

Valdemar was still staring a little dubiously.

“It’s, uh, a surprisingly artistic job — I mean, it’s really just fascinating how you can make a dead person look so, well, _alive._ ”

There was a long pause in which Valdemar appeared to evaluate them with a critical eye, and then tilted their head unnervingly to one side. Though their mouth was still hidden under their cloth mask, Finch detected an ominous smile.

“Now, this is _technically_ against regulations… but if you are so curious about how we prepare the bodies, would you like to come on a tour downstairs?”

“Sure, why not?”

Finch could’ve kicked themself. That… hadn’t been what they’d meant to say _at all_. In fact, this whole conversation felt as if it’d been derailed from the moment they’d initiated it.

Valdemar set the pen down and stood up to their full height, steepling their fingers together.

“Come along, then. All of my work is done in the basement.”

They walked back over to the landing, and waited for Finch to follow. Finch cautiously joined them, but visibly hesitated at the precipice of the staircase. It was still appallingly pitch-black down there — did Valdemar _really_ expect them to walk down those stairs?

Valdemar glanced back, looking a touch confused, and then realization seemed to dawn on them. 

“Ah. I forgot — you need light, don’t you?” Valdemar flicked on a switch hidden amidst the aged wallpaper. The narrow staircase filled with feeble, yellowish light.

_Are they… implying that they_ don’t _need light?_ Finch wondered, wholly unnerved.

“Mind your step,” Valdemar helpfully suggested, and Finch nervously began clambering down the stairs. Each of their footfalls was accompanied by a disconcertingly loud creak from the wooden steps.

Valdemar’s steps, on the other hand, were somehow perfectly silent as they descended downwards. They were humming a tune that Finch did not recognize — a low, eerie melody that was discordant in some bits and melodic in others. If Finch didn’t know better, they’d be tempted to speculate that Valdemar was humming a song _backwards_. 

Finch passed under a flickering light, and reflected that if they were indeed in a horror film, they were probably about to be murdered in a gruesome way. Somewhere on the other side of a screen, there were surely viewers yelling at them for being a typical stupid protagonist, heedlessly ignoring each and every warning sign.

In their defense, horror films didn’t usually feature muscular, garishly-dressed motorcyclists who whisked away the resident ghosts on hot dates.

At the base of the staircase was a thin, narrow hall with walls so cramped, they felt as if they were about to close in on Finch. There was a portrait of an elderly woman on a wall, and Finch remembered that funeral homes tended to be businesses that stayed in one family.

“Are you related to her?” they asked, and Valdemar angled their body to look at where Finch was pointing.

“No,” they replied simply. They continued to walk forward without offering any sort of explanation. Within a moment, they approached a door and opened it, beckoning Finch inside.

Finch heart beat a little faster as they entered, but what they saw surprised them. In the back of their mind, they’d been visualizing some sort of dungeon, complete with rusted tools, blood-streaked walls, and a vivisection table waiting for them.

Instead, they walked into a room that was brightly illuminated with florescent lights. To Finch’s great relief, there were no dead bodies here — just a pair of empty, metal tables. Clean, unfamiliar machinery was set on the counter, and the few scalpels that lay on the available surfaces were polished and organized. 

As a whole, the room was incredibly sterile and not extraordinarily threatening.

Upon entering, Valdemar removed their cloth mask and inhaled deeply.

“Much better,” they said. Under the bright lights, Finch observed that Valdemar looked somewhat like a corpse themself. Their figure was lanky, if not a little bony, and strangely enough their skin had a pallor that was nearly _moss green_ in color. 

Finch told themself that it was probably just an effect from the harsh lighting.

“This is the embalming room,” they continued, making a wide gesture.

“How, uh, interesting,” Finch responded, trying to think of something to say. “It’s cleaner than I expected.” They immediately regretted that comment — didn’t they just imply that they’d expected Valdemar’s workspace to be _dirty?_

But if Valdemar was insulted, it didn’t seem to register. If anything, they looked excited — a sharp contrast to their demeanor while filling out paperwork upstairs.

“You’ll be interested in this,” Valdemar informed them with a pleased smile. “Come take a look.”

Finch obediently followed them to one of the tables, confused. Valdemar pointed to an evil-looking metal contraption attached to its surface.

“ _This_ is a Blickens Device. It is used to position cadavers during the embalming process. Very rare to see nowadays — they’re considered a tad bit outdated by most. I suppose there _is_ modern equipment that’s easier to use, but…” They touched the device fondly.

“I personally find this to be _much_ more fun.”

“What’s in those cabinets?” Finch asked, attempting to seem interested and also to distract Valdemar’s attention away from the slightly off-putting Blickens Device.

Valdemar moved over to the cabinets and opened several to display their contents. Mostly, they were filled with bottles of various colors and sizes.

“Embalming fluids,” Valdemar explained. “Each with their own function.” 

They picked up a large one that was Pepto-Bismol pink in color.

“This, for example, is a dye. Various shades can be added to the embalming fluid to make the corpses look far more _lively_.”

Next, they selected a small, dark bottle. Valdemar twisted off the lid, and an unexpectedly pleasant fragrance hit Finch’s nostrils.

“And _this_ is an essential oil,” they said, smiling at the surprised expression on Finch’s face. “Clove oil, to be specific. It can be added in to help the deceased smell better. Particularly useful in cases where the corpse is a little more decayed than would be ideal.”

“Would you like to look at the embalming machine next?” Valdemar asked, and Finch nodded their head. Valdemar pointed over to an appliance that looked worryingly like a large blender. 

“The embalming machine, of course, is where all those delightful embalming fluids are transported through…” As Valdemar began explaining the fine details of _pressure settings_ and _flow rate_ , Finch started to zone out.

“Now, if I were to make an incision on _you_ …” Finch fell out of their trance as Valdemar unexpectedly paced over to them. They traced a slender finger right above Finch’s collarbone, and Finch shivered.

“It would be right _here_. Right in the region of the carotid and jugular… the embalming fluid would be circulated into the artery and out the vein, respectively.”

Valdemar’s demeanor was unquestionably uncanny, and yet... now that they were so close, Finch couldn’t deny that they were actually kind of attractive.

As they gently prodded at where Finch’s jugular might be, Finch noted how oddly graceful their movements were. And while their skin _did_ appear to have an strangely greenish tone under the lights, it somehow only accentuated their striking facial features. Jewel-toned red eyes glanced over Finch’s skin, as if deciding _exactly_ where they’d lacerate their skin with a scalpel.

“Of course, it would help if you were dead before I made the incision. The live ones tend to struggle too much.” 

Valdemar gave a lengthy pause, and Finch abruptly realized that they were trying to make a joke. Finch gave a short, belated laugh, and immediately felt embarrassed at their own lack of social decorum. 

Finch was so busy reprimanding themself for not getting the joke sooner, that they did not notice Valdemar was already moving again. They took long striding steps over to the corner of the room to showcase yet another article of mysterious machinery.

“And this is the trocar,” Valdemar proclaimed, holding up a large, metal needle that was longer than Finch’s arm. At the unexpected sight of it, Finch nearly jumped back in alarm.

“What on earth does _that_ get used for?” Finch asked, trying to keep any trace of fear out of their voice.

Valdemar smiled, seemingly delighted that Finch had asked, and Finch noted that there was an unnatural sharpness about their teeth. They felt uncertain as to whether they could explain away this particular feature as a trick of the light.

“The trocar is designed to puncture into the cadaver’s abdomen — when it’s hooked up to that hydro aspirator over there, it’s a very good method of removing all those vile liquids that would otherwise cause the body to decompose much faster.” 

Finch felt a little queasy hearing these details, and fell silent.

“Would you like to see the next room?” Valdemar asked invitingly.

“Oh, yes, I’d love to,” Finch responded without thinking, more concerned with the trocar going back on its shelf than anything else.

“How wonderful! Follow me,” Valdemar instructed, and Finch accompanied them back into the claustrophobic hallway. As they approached the next door, Finch passed by a large whiteboard with names and dates written in marker. The name “Cassandra Mayweather” was written on one column. With a chill, they realized that the names must’ve belonged to the deceased.

Were they about to actually see _dead bodies?_ Finch hoped not.

The room beyond the door was chilly, and one wall was lined with squarish steel refrigeration units.

“Is… this the morgue?” Finch asked.

“This is where we temporarily store bodies, yes,” Valdemar answered. They paused for a moment, as if considering something.

“Hmmmm. As long as you’re in here, I would rather have you in protective gear. Wait here just a moment,” they directed Finch, and strode over to another section of the room. When they returned, their arms were full of plastic garments.

“Arms above your head,” they told Finch in a firm voice, and Finch did as they asked. Valdemar hummed as they placed a waterproof gown over Finch’s body, and the rustle of fabric filled their ears as Valdemar straightened it out. 

“Turn around,” they instructed. “I’ll need to tie it in the back.”

Finch could feel their face turning pink as they turned, feeling Valdemar’s hands gracefully fasten the plastic ties. They gave a quick tug, tightening the strap so that the plastic gown hugged close to their body.

“Feel snug?” 

Their voice was directly in Finch’s ear, and a shiver went up their spine as they realized that Valdemar was leaning right over their shoulder. Apparently, the mortician did not have a strong sense of personal space.

“Yep... feels great!” Finch stammered.

“Hands next,” Valdemar stated, unrolling a pair of black latex gloves that matched their own. As Valdemar helped them on, Finch noted wonderingly that they had somehow known their exact glove size.

Next, Valdemar retrieved a respirator.

“Are you sure that’s really necessary?” Finch asked, a bit puzzled. 

“One can never be too careful,” they retorted. “It would be such an awful shame if you caught something from a bad air.”

“Bad air?” Finch asked with a short, uncertain laugh. “You mean like miasma theory? That idea that was popular in the Middle Ages?”

Finch had hoped that they’d actually understood one of Valdemar’s strange jokes this time, but Valdemar only responded with a stern expression.

“Well, uh, let’s go ahead and put on the respirator then,” Finch said quickly, hoping that they hadn’t accidentally offended the mortician. “Just in case.”

Valdemar seemed appeased, and stepped forward with the gear. 

“It’s easy to get on,” they assured Finch. They lowered the respirator down, pulling it over Finch’s face in a careful motion. A stray, latex-clad hand stroked against Finch’s neck as they adjusted the apparatus.

“Is that comfortable?” they asked, red eyes peering directly into Finch’s.

“Comfortable enough,” Finch replied in a flustered tone, distracted by the light touch of Valdemar’s gloved hand on the back of their neck. Valdemar straightened up, glancing at the fridges along the wall.

“Then you are ready to meet our guests,” they said, offering a foreboding smile.

Valdemar moved in a purposeful manner, running their fingers along the outside of the fridges until they stopped at one in particular. They beckoned Finch over with a gloved hand, and Finch slowly approached. Valdemar reached forward and pulled the compartment open, sliding the occupant out from the icebox.

Finch stifled a gasp as they stared down.

It appeared to be a middle-aged man. Finch knew this was a dead body, and yet their mind was actively trying to convince them otherwise. Overall, his skin looked extremely pale and waxy, and Finch was tempted to think that he might just be a prop.

There was an odd, unexpected well of emotion in Finch’s chest. The idea of encountering a dead body certainly wasn’t a pleasant one, but they’d always considered themself a rational person. Nevertheless, Finch’s heart started beating faster and faster, and they began to feel their hands nervously shake.

Finch was so absorbed in staring at the corpse that when they felt a hand on their shoulder, they nearly jumped out of their skin. Feeling pale, they looked up into the gaze of the mortician.

Valdemar looked… worried. They tilted their head to one side.

“Sorry!” Finch blurted, simultaneously unsure as to why they were apologizing. They didn’t understand why they were reacting this way.

“Do I need to put him back?”

Finch saw the body beginning to slide back into the refrigeration unit, but hastily shook their head.

“No, I just…” Finch tried to think of how to explain how they were feeling, but no words came to mind.

“It’s perfectly normal,” Valdemar said in a calm, assuring voice. The hand that rested on their shoulder gave a slight squeeze. Finch could feel a chill emanating through the glove, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“Humans often react this way when faced with a cadaver for the first time.”

Their grip lingered on Finch’s shoulder, its presence somewhat distracting them from the sight of the body. While their grip was gentle, there was a subtle strength held in their long fingers.

Finch considered asking to go back upstairs, but realized that if they ended the tour, their time with their tour guide would also come to an end. Valdemar’s company was surprisingly comforting, even if that company was decidedly unusual.

“I think I’m okay now,” Finch said, still feeling a small tremble in their voice.

Valdemar eyed them suspiciously, their narrowed gaze informing Finch that they didn’t fully believe this claim.

“How did he die?” Finch asked, keen on distracting the mortician.

“Drowning incident,” Valdemar replied simply. “Inebriation was involved, as it often is in such cases.”

Finch took a closer look. Some sections of his skin seemed as if he’d suffered from very bad sunburns — so severe, in fact, that the skin itself seemed to be sloughing off in thin, pale layers.

Valdemar noticed Finch’s staring, and went on to explain.

“Skin slip,” they stated matter-of-factly. “Very common in non-ideal deaths such as this one — but nothing a little phenol-based spray and makeup can’t fix!”

Valdemar gave the platform a push, wheeling the body back into the refrigerator. They turned to Finch with a piercing red gaze.

“Do wear a life jacket,” they said with a suddenly serious expression. “Otherwise, you’ll make a mortician’s job more complicated.”

Finch numbly nodded their head in response, which seemed to placate Valdemar.

“I mean, you’d make me look pretty no matter what though, right?” Finch said with a grin, attempting their own joke.

“Oh, yes,” Valdemar said with a smile, and Finch couldn’t tell if they were following along with the joke or if they were completely sincere.

“Why don’t I show you a much nicer looking cadaver?” Valdemar offered, eyes gleaming with excitement. Despite their queasiness, Finch gave a nod. There was something compelling about the mortician’s enthusiasm, and Finch couldn’t help but be curious as to what Valdemar wanted to show them next.

Valdemar strolled to the back of the room and pulled out another platform. This time, the body belonged to an elderly woman. And true to their word, the body _did_ look much nicer — while still definitely deceased, there was a warm color to her features that was absent from the previous cadaver. Her eyes were peacefully closed.

“Cassandra Mayweather herself,” Valdemar clarified, and Finch briefly wondered about the ethical legality of being shown the corpse of their coworker’s grandmother.

“It... almost looks like she’s sleeping,” Finch said quietly, aware of how cliché their words sounded.

“I do appreciate the compliment,” Valdemar replied with a notable tinge of pride in their voice. 

“Unfortunately, this is the last stop of the tour. I trust that you’re ready to go back up?”

Finch nodded, feeling fairly relieved, as Valdemar rolled the platform back in. Finch began to make their way to the door before a freezing hand stopped them in their tracks, gripping their shoulder again.

“I will be needing the protective garments back,” Valdemar said, giving them a lightly chastising look. “Or were you planning on simply taking off with them?”

Finch felt their features redden with embarrassment, and Valdemar swiftly helped them remove the gear. 

Then, they were both walking into the cramped hallway and back up the stairs. Finch exhaled a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding as they caught a glimpse of languid daylight streaming from above. Even the heavy smell of potpourri was a relief to their senses as they emerged back into the parlor.

Finch was about to wave goodbye and step out the door when they heard the mortician’s chilly voice again.

“ _Wait_.”

Finch paused midstep, glancing at Valdemar with curiosity in their eyes. Valdemar considered them for a moment, and then walked over to the desk, retrieving a small slip of paper. Hastily, they wrote something down.

“You’re quite enjoyable to talk to,” they noted. “It’s not often that I encounter guests who have an actual interest in the mortuary field… perhaps we can visit again, sometime.”

They offered out the paper, and Finch made their way over to retrieve it, unsure of what to expect. Finch stared at the writing for a moment, and then suddenly their mind pieced together what the long string of numbers meant.

Valdemar was giving Finch their phone number.

“Oh!” they softly exclaimed, feeling their face heat up a little as they glanced back up into the mortician’s red eyes. 

“Feel free to call,” Valdemar said, inclining their head towards the paper. Then, with a single fluid movement, they turned back towards the staircase and stepped down into the dark.

Finch felt a great mixture of different emotions as they exited back outside, hopping into their dented car. In one palm they held the phone number, a sweet and earthy scent of cloves lingering on the paper. In any case, they were eager to finally drive back to their apartment for the evening — they could sort out all of their complicated feelings there, and perhaps even think about how to proceed with that small slip of paper.

Many minutes had passed, and Finch was nearly home, when they subconsciously slipped a hand into their pocket. And in their pocket, they felt... something that shouldn’t have been there.

They slowly removed the item, horrified.

In their hand was the bag of makeup. The item that was the _entire reason_ for their detour.

“ _Damn it!_ ” Finch swore as they made a begrudging U-turn back towards the funeral home, where doubtlessly they’d have to shamefully explain the situation to Valdemar.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I came up with the title as an affectionate parody of romance novel titles, aaaaannd it turns out that "Scent of Cloves" is a very real romance novel that already exists out there. Whoops!
> 
> Also, a thanks to my dear spouse, CrinklyTinfoil, for helping me write this. <3


End file.
